Laughter and other sweet sounds

Tuesday

The two high school girls were in a booth just down from us at a Hawaiian restaurant last week.

Laughing.

Not just a little chortle here and there, but petal-to-the-metal guffaws with such intensity that, at one point, one girl actually rolled over onto her side.

She bounced back up, saw me glancing at her and mouthed the word, “Sorry.”

As we got up and left, I couldn’t resist.

“Hey, thanks,” I said. “It’s nice to hear laughter.”

It had something to do with one of them knocking on the door — for some time — of what they thought was a bathroom but was actually a storage room door.

Now I understood. That was far funnier than me having accidentally sprayed my arm with teriyaki sauce shot from a formerly clogged squeeze bottle.

I like the sound of laughter. I wish I heard it more. I wish I heard other sounds more, but sometimes I get going so fast I don’t stop to listen.

But I need to. Because, like many of you, I have all sorts of favorite sounds, if I just stop to notice them. Among them:

Leaves. I’m looking forward to the sound of the dry, crackly ones underfoot. Or, if they’re piled high as you shuffle through them, that “swish-swish-swish” sound. It’s not that I’m philosophically opposed to wet leaves, it’s just that in such conditions they lose their auditory allure.

Moving water: ocean waves, rivers, streams — a sailboat slicing its way across a lake. With a few exceptions — storms, floods and pounding rivers you might be trying to cross — water is full of sweet-sounding life.

Rain on the roof. Or dripping from my oft-clogged gutters. Or on my windshield. I’m eager to hear rain again. The last time I heard it was at the Olympic Trials in June when it sounded like we were in the thrust cone of a 747 as the rain pounded on the canvas roof of the media tent. I miss the sound of the kinder, gentler version. I felt and saw it Saturday night, but didn’t hear it at (It Never Rains At) Autzen Stadium.

The pop of an ax through dry wood. Once, I was splitting a cord when a neighbor stopped by with a splitting maul. He, too, liked the sound — and the feel — of it. How could I say no to his offer of help?

Soft voices across a lake. I hear that and I’m 12 years old again, camping at Cultus Lake at dusk on an August evening.

Music. All types. She Who Laughs (Often At Me) lost a wonderful uncle recently and I inherited the man’s extensive folk music CD collection. Zillions of songs, from “Blowin’ in the Wind” by The Kingston Trio to “I’ll Never Find Another You” by The Seekers. I’d go on, but I’d start to sound like one of those K-Tel Record announcers from the ’70s.

More music. Specifically, children’s choirs singing Christmas songs.

Rain Bird sprinklers. The old kind are almost obsolete, the ones that slowly swept one way, then, when the swath was completed, went “ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch” back to the sprinkler’s original position. A quintessential summer sound.

Train whistles. If you live in the Ya-Po-Ah Terrace, you’re not going to like this one; they keep you up at night. But from miles away, they are a wistful sound, conjuring thoughts of the past and Neil Young singing “Four Strong Winds.”

The crackle of a campfire. What is it about a campfire that brings out the sentimental in us? You’ll say something to someone around a campfire that comes from deeper in your soul than if you’re, say, out to dinner or driving in a car.

Speaking of which, how about wilderness silence? This, I realize, is controversial, if-a-tree-falls-in-the-woods stuff. If you’re in the woods and all is quiet, are you really hearing anything? I would argue yes. You’re hearing nothing. And nothing can be something. End of argument.

The horn at Autzen Stadium. It means the Ducks have scored and the moment is often accompanied by fans who don’t even know each other slapping high-fives. Not often we’re that congenial with strangers.

A group song. At the Crosby, Stills & Nash concert at the Cuthbert Amphitheatre earlier this month, the audience was invited to join in on “Our House” — “... with two cats in the yard/life used to be so hard ...” — and it was a wonderful Eugene moment.

A howling coast storm, the wind whistling past the power lines, the sideways rain slamming the cabin as if shot from a barrage of rapid-fire paint guns.

Finally, children’s laughter.

Here I am, back where I started, though the example comes from a 6-month-old grandson.

The other night, along with 2-year-old Keaton, I took Lincoln for a walk in a stroller, whose shock absorbers, I soon realized, are better than the ones on my ’95 pickup.

It was a perfect evening — 75 degrees — and every now and then Lincoln would thrust out his arms and legs and just giggle, as if to say, “This is so amazingly cool!”

I hope I never forget how amazingly cool life sometimes sounds.

Follow Welch on Twitter @bob_welch. He is at 541-338-2354 or bob.welch@registerguard.com.

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